So okay, the holidays are generally stressful and slightly terrible. There’s a little joy and stuff in there too, I suppose. But the stress is often unbearable.
And this year is no different.
Two days before Thanksgiving this year, I decided that it would be a great idea for me to pick a fight with – wait for it – my mother, my father, and an aunt. There was yelling and screaming and such. Now, if I was 15 years old, this wouldn’t be all that interesting. But, see, I’m 32 years old. Almost 33, in fact. There is no reason why I should be hanging up on my mother, why my father should be hanging up on me, or why I should be picking fights.
But I think I know what happened. It’s the holidays. It does crazy things to people. Well, it does crazy things to people in my family, at least. My earliest memories of family holidays include fun, food, and laughs, to be sure. But they also include lots of drama mamas acting out, you know, right in the middle of dinner. Sometimes it wouldn’t even wait that long. Some years, my aunt’s family, my mother’s youngest sister, would get to our house and none of them would be speaking to each other. These years were better than the ones when they would get to the house and they would all be yelling at each other, but still – not exactly the way you want to celebrate Baby Jesus or the Easter Bunny or whatnot.
Because of my track record with yuletide cheer, I generally skip out on most holiday parties. Not all, but most. This year, with my levels of discontent higher than usual (please see above reference to the Thanksgiving debacle as evidence), I thought I was totally in the clear on all holiday parties. But no. No, not so. HC, my boyfriend, is forcing me to attend a holiday party with him over the weekend. That is VERY near Christmas. Like DANGEROUSLY near Christmas. And it’s with a group of people, none of whom I’ve met before. All they have to do is throw some pregnant women and children on that and it could be my worst holiday nightmare.
G-d, is it January yet?